


Bissen

by theimpossiblegeekygrrl



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-18 05:04:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4693100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theimpossiblegeekygrrl/pseuds/theimpossiblegeekygrrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, work comes home with you ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bissen

They ask me to feed him today, as they oddly trust me, despite the suspicion they’ve always carried about the “little princess” – me, the nickname they make me carry due to my family’s reputation. Yet today, I am one of them as I sit at the table and remove the dome that covers a plate of simple food.

A pork chop, carrots, and hashed potatoes sit on the white china, and my mouth waters.

He is staring at me, but not looking at me as his eyes have filmed over with the haze that signals only a regard for the past, with no remembrance of the present. He is not native to our area. I remember his accent, when he used to speak, was broken, though his English was more perfect and carefully spoken than my own.

“A bite?” I ask, and I slowly mash his food by hand, since the kitchen once again forgot to do so. The carrots become a glossy pulp, the potatoes creamy and white, the salty meat a fibrous mess of flavor. When I look back up, he is staring blankly at my ear with his mouth closed shut.

I sigh, trying to recall the one semester of German I took in school, when I thought I might get lost in one of the old cities I once visited as a child. The word is on the tip of my tongue, and I’m almost afraid to say it, to be wrong – but I still try.

“Bissen?” I ask, putting enough food on the spoon to feed a doll. His eyebrows twitch with interest. It must have been close enough to spark his thoughts enough to finally see me.

After a slight nod of his head, his mouth opens just enough for me to spoon in the too-orange pulp. He chews and closes his eyes as he begins to fade away.

I put another bite on his spoon, this time the potatoes that are everyone’s favorite.

“Bissen?”

The eyes are open again. Another nod. I spoon the food into his mouth once more, seeing the slightest glimmer of a smile as the corner of his mouth lifts as he drifts away again.

I look at the pile of mush that was once a pork chop and think of another day when he smiled and asked me so sweetly to take it off the bone so that he could cut it easier. They had once been his favorite as the gravy was always to his liking, and the salty meat was a flavor he could taste better than others.

“Bissen?”

The reaction is still the same, and I put the tiny bite through lips that have just barely parted. He is tired now – he’s been tired since I first met him. Just the effort to chew the mashed foods and gently swallow is almost too much for him.

And yet … and yet I hear a little moan of approval in his throat as he chews the meat in his mouth.

Then he is still. I think he might almost be asleep, as sleep comes so easily to him now.

And yet the eyes open, looking directly at me. I think he almost recognizes me and might even say my name.

“Lynne?” he asks.

I close my eyes. It’s not the first time I haven’t been myself, for I am never myself here.

I’m a long lost friend, an old lover, a sister. The girl whose hair they stroke while murmuring what a pretty color it is. The red cheeked nurse who they ask to sit in their room when they are lonely.

And more frequently, the mother they cry for when they wake from sleep, or their absent wife.

I sigh.

“Ja,” I answer, nodding my head and smiling at him, though my throat is constricting with an emotion I don’t want to address.

“Ich liebe dich,” he says, his words very soft as he smiles.

I bite my lip to keep from crying, but the salty tears slide down my cheeks regardless of my will. I taste their flavor as I open my mouth and reply, “Ich liebe dich.”

The woman next to me, who has worked here since God himself was a boy, pats my shoulder and tells me I’ve done a good thing, again. I sigh and wipe my eyes with the napkin that is no longer needed.

I take him back to his room to sleep, the ride easy for him. Before I turn out the lights, I look at the chess set in the corner that we used to play – now dusty. The books he no longer reads are stacked by the chair he no longer sits in.

I turn out the light and return to the dining table. They bring me a tray – I’ve forgotten to eat again as I can never remember to pack a lunch or stop long enough to listen to my body. The pork chop is on the bone, and I remove it to make it easier to cut.

The meat is salty from the cook’s generous hand and from the tears that still spill from my cheeks.


End file.
